Open Road Summer(32)

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, taking my arm back gently. “Trust me.”

If it were as easy as simply obeying this command—trust me—my therapist could have saved us both a lot of time. I exhale, mouth in an O shape. I wish I could smoke in this room.

“It’s just loud,” Zach assures me. “And you don’t have to look.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m fine,” I lie. Saying it doesn’t make it true.

The saw begins to whir, and he directs it toward my arm. Instinctively, my other hand grabs for something to steady myself. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m clutching Matt’s hand. I hear him scoot his chair closer to me, but I can’t take my eyes off the saw.

“Look at me,” Matt commands, and I pull my eyes away from the rotating blade. I feel it touch the top of the cast, vibrating down my arm.

I settle my eyes on Matt. His eyes are unblinking, the color of worn blue jeans. I focus on them—the way his irises look bluer because he’s wearing a heather-gray T-shirt—until I feel the pressure of the cast release. The buzzing stops, and I glance back in time to see Zach snipping the gauze off with scissors. It falls away from my arm, and I feel the air against my bare skin. Even room temperature feels cool to an arm covered by insulation for almost two months. My arm looks smaller, and I stretch my fingers. Gingerly, I bend my wrist up and down like a hinge.

“How does it feel?” Zach asks.

“Good. Kind of . . . stiff.”


“That’s normal,” he says. He runs his hand down my arm, flipping it over to examine the other side. “Lost some muscle mass, which is also normal, but it looks good. The doctor will be in to check it out shortly. He’ll walk you through a few exercises that’ll help you regain mobility. You’ll just have to go easy on it at first.”

“Thanks.” I remove my other hand from Matt’s, embarrassed that I’ve been holding it this whole time. With my right hand, I touch my left wrist for the first time in two months. I’m relieved, but not at the sight of my arm or even the freedom of movement I’ve missed in these long weeks. No, I feel relief that healing is a real thing after all—that every day, I’m a little less broken than the day before.

Last April, I spent an evening at Dee’s recording studio in downtown Nashville, taking pictures as she recut one of her songs for the album. She was on a short break before the tour began and, though she couldn’t be in school with me those few weeks, I was glad to have her close. I felt good. Centered. My community service was done, I was halfway through therapy, and I hadn’t gotten in any trouble since the arrest that earned me those activities in the first place.

On my way back home that evening, I stopped at Blake’s apartment to grab a jacket I’d left there the night before. I hurried up the walkway to the two-story, faded stucco building, past the overgrown shrubs. Someone held the door for me as I walked in—I don’t know why I remember that. The door to apartment 2C was propped open, as always, since the building is too cheap for anyone to bother robbing it.

Blake’s roommate was sitting in the living room with a few other guys, a cloud of pot smoke hovering over them. There were cans of beer strewn about, while the TV played a show that could only be interesting while under the influence of drugs.

“In his room?” I asked.

His roommate’s head lolled in my direction, giving me that glazed-over look. “I dunno.”

I turned the doorknob into Blake’s room, and the first thing I saw was skin. Lots of bare skin, tangled in his striped sheets. And a discarded bra on the edge of the bed, in a soft, girlie-girl pink color I would never wear. For a moment, I couldn’t move. They both froze, too, at the sound of the door opening. My mouth couldn’t find words, but my right hand somehow found a desk lamp. I didn’t actually decide to hurl the lamp across the room, but my arm retracted on its own. The lamp was weightless against my fury, and then it was airborne. I heard the lightbulb break as it hit the wall, a few feet from Blake’s head.

That was when the expletives started, firing toward Blake—bullets out of my machine-gun mouth—and everything became blurry. I remember the girl looking unapologetic and annoyed as she wrapped herself in a sheet. I remember the rage and embarrassment pulsing in my ears so loudly that I couldn’t even hear the TV as I stormed out. I’m sure his roommate and friends were gawking, but anger blackened my periphery like blinders. I remember pulling the apartment door shut with enough force to rattle the entire doorframe. Then, for good measure, I turned around and kicked the door, leaving a scuff mark from the sole of my shoe.

I nearly ran toward my car, pausing only to dig for the keys in my purse. My hands were trembling, unsteadied by the toxic mix of anger and adrenaline coursing through my veins. By the time I grasped my keys, the building door was reopening from behind me. Blake chased after me, yelling my name. Despite my instinct to run, I whirled around to face him. He tried to tell me that it wasn’t what it looked like.

“Really?” I screamed, my voice so shrill and uneven. “Really?”

Up close, he reeked of booze, which took me aback. Blake smokes pot because he hates the way that alcohol makes him feel—too out of control, he says. Call that a harbinger, call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, call it whatever you want. I should have known what might happen.